Saturday, July 22, 2017

The hanging rain forest strands
And moss-mound floor:
Everything has shivered off its white
And is squeaking color:
Life supplants life, as if there is
No living thing, no form
To ascribe a good or bad condition
Through circuitries of blame,
There's only quality of light,
The way the truth, in being
Articulated, takes the essence with it
On its endlessly rising wave,
Leaving the salty snow melt grass
In frosted radiance
With the bullseye lichen
And the pink wintergreen,
Even the late afternoon, as if they
Are alive
Like the look of the fireweed,
The sound of the stones.